


You're My Mission

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Costumes, Fluff, Halloween, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why don’t you come over to my house and watch the movie?” Ian says out of nowhere.</p><p>Mickey stops dead. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?” he says.</p><p>(Ian needs help with his Halloween costume, and Mickey's just the man for the job. High-school AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Mission

**Author's Note:**

> Anon's prompt was "I've been obsessed lately with the idea of Ian and Mickey meeting at a halloween party for the first time and they're in the same outfit. Or, in different halves of the same couple/bromance and so everyone thinks that they're there together?"
> 
> As per my usual, I managed to go completely OFF prompt, but hopefully the high-school cuteness makes up for it. :) Thanks, Anon! Happy Halloween!

“Milkovich, get over here,” Mr. Anders calls from across the shop. Mickey turns off the acetylene torch, takes off his goggles, and heads over.

“Sup?” he asks his teacher, trying to ignore the kid standing next to him.

“Gallagher needs some help on a project. Up for it?”

“Yes sir,” Mickey says. Truth is, if Anders asked him to jump, all Mickey would need to know is how high and to what specifications. The guy is the only teacher in this whole place who isn’t full of crap, and he actually knows shit. Cool, useful shit, that he teaches Mickey and the other shop kids. Like a teacher is supposed to do.

He doesn’t seem to give a shit about their other grades, or if they tripped Suzy Goody-Two-Shoes when they were in third grade, or who their families are. Just teaches them shit, and lets them get on with doing it.

No way would Mickey have stuck around this place so long if it weren’t for Anders’s class—and he’s offered to help Mickey get a real welding job at a place his friend runs, as long as Mickey manages to graduate first. Less than a year to go.

So, yeah. Anders is all right.

The kid next to him, not so much, though. He looks all eager and excited, just begging Mickey to kick his ass. Mickey shoots a quick glance at Anders, and gets a wry look in return.

OK, fine. Whatever. Mickey can deal. He’ll just think of it as—practice for dealing with obnoxious customers someday.

“What’s the project?” he asks the kid bluntly. Anders gives him a nod, and walks over to help some dumb-ass who’s about to slice his hand off with the band saw.

“Hi, I’m Ian Gallagher,” the kid says, way too chirpy for someone who’s got to be at least a junior, judging by how tall and fucking built he is. Mickey has to tilt his chin up to look at him, and it’s already pissing him the fuck off.

The kid puts out his hand to shake, and Mickey just stares at it for a second.

“What’s the project?” he repeats again, a little slower. Is this guy an idiot or something?

“Oh,” Gallagher says, dropping his hand. He flushes, and with all the freckles he has, it makes him look like a pizza. “It’s, um. It’s kind of stupid, I guess.”

“Then why the fuck are you in here bugging me with it?” Mickey says. So much for being patient with obnoxious customers. Shit. But come on. What the fuck.

Gallagher blinks. “I—yeah. OK. Never mind.” For a minute, Mickey thinks that means they’re done, and he starts to turn away. But the kid keeps going. “You’re right. It’s actually going to be pretty fucking awesome. I just—I need some help figuring some of it out.” He stops, but now he looks pissed off, not embarrassed.

He looks less stupid that way, anyway.

Mickey puts out his hand for the wrinkled pieces of paper Gallagher has clutched in his fist. “Gimme,” he says impatiently, gesturing for the kid to hand them over. Reluctantly, Gallagher gives them up.

“The fuck is this shit?” Mickey says, flipping through them. “You wanna make a metal statue of Captain America? Fuckin’ why?”

“No!” Gallagher says quickly. “The shield. Um, for my costume. For . . . Halloween.”

Mickey scoffs—Halloween? Is this guy twelve?—but flips back through the printouts again, more slowly. The pictures are black and white, and super fucking small. He can’t see shit about the details of the shield at all. He knows he watched the first movie with Mandy and Iggy one time, but they were totally high, so he doesn’t remember anything about it.

Except that one scene with the guy all oiled up in the machine or whatever.

But yeah, he definitely doesn’t remember anything about the shield. Maybe that it’s made of some kind of special fake metal or something? At least, in the movie it was. But it shouldn’t be too hard to make for real. Maybe they can start with a trash-can lid as the base . . .

He squints at the paper again, rubbing his mouth with his thumb thoughtfully. “These pictures are for shit. Do you have anything better I can look at?”

“Wait, does that mean you’ll help me with it?” Gallagher says, all excited puppy dog again.

Mickey snorts. “No, I just have a sudden urge to look at Captain America’s bulging biceps. Come on, what did you do, print out the first three images off Google at the library?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Ian. He’s flushed red again.

“Yeah, OK, well, I can’t make fucking anything based on these. Can you find something better or what? I’m not gonna do your homework for you.”

“Why don’t you come over to my house and watch the movie?” Ian says out of nowhere.

Mickey stops dead. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?” he says.

Ian’s confidence shatters pretty fast, and his face drops. “I mean, sorry, you don’t—it was just an idea, I can get better pictures. I just thought, if you wanted to see it up close and in color and stuff—”

“Quit babbling, Gallagher,” Mickey says. “Don’t get invited to a lot of play dates, that’s all.”

“I—it’s not—I mean . . .” Wow, this kid is a mess. He’s gaping like a goldfish out of water.

“Heard the second movie was better,” Mickey says after another second of watching Gallagher squirm. “You got that one?”

“Yeah, totally!” Ian says eagerly. “Um, when can you—is tomorrow—”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, shrugging and handing the papers back. “I have a shift at the gas station after school, I’ll come over when that’s over, probably like eight or something.”

“OK, great!” Ian says. “I live—”

“You’re Lip’s little brother, right?” Mickey says. “Over on Wallace?”

Ian deflates a little for some reason. “Yeah,” he says. “Cool, I’ll . . . see you then?”

Mickey waves him away. “Scram. Some of us have actual work to do. Not stupid Halloween shit.”

“Yeah, OK. Thanks, Mickey! I really appreciate it!” Ian says, and turns to go. Mickey doesn’t watch him leave the shop. He doesn’t think about how this is the first time someone’s invited him over to their house since grade school.

He doesn’t.

 

Mickey finishes his shift at the gas station all gross and sweaty—it’s weirdly warm for the beginning of October—but who gives a shit? He should just go over to Ian’s house. Why would Ian care what Mickey smells like? But for some reason, he doesn’t do that. He goes home first and takes a fucking shower, and doesn’t think about why.

Standing in front of the sink, he considers for one stupid second putting gel in his hair or something, but then he rolls his eyes at himself, slaps on some deodorant, and gets the hell out of there before his dad comes home.

Gallagher’s house is only a couple minutes away, and Mickey spends all three of them trying to remember if he’s going to get bitched at by Lip Gallagher for anything. He might owe him for an English paper or something—it’s not like Mickey gives a shit about what he turns in, so why would he remember whether or not he actually ended up paying for it? And actually, if Lip can’t be bothered to follow up on debts, he doesn’t actually deserve the money, is the way Mickey figures it.

Anyway, it wasn’t Lip to asked him to come over. It was Ian. So.

Mickey walks up the stairs, feeling stupid, and raps on the door twice. No one says anything from inside, and the door stays shut. He’s not sure if he should do it again or what. Not that he cares if he’s rude or whatever, but— He’s just raising his hand to knock again when the door swings open, and Ian’s standing there, panting.

“Sorry!” he says. “Um, my room’s upstairs and no one else is home, so it took me a minute—sorry,” he repeats. His hair is damp and a little curly in the back, and he’s breathing hard.

Mickey just stares at him, not sure what to say. What’s he supposed to say to any of that. _It’s cool?_ That would be stupid.

“Yeah, so, come in,” Ian says, gesturing awkwardly. “I got us a pizza. Is pepperoni OK?”

Ah, an actual question. Nice. “It’s cool, whatever,” Mickey says. “You got the movie?”

“Yeah, it’s ready to go.” Ian turns and starts walking through the kitchen to the living room, and Mickey follows him. He doesn’t ask if he should take his shoes off or anything, and he doesn’t have a coat.

“Do you want water or pop or something?” Ian asks.

“Sure, you got a beer?” Mickey rubs the back of his neck.

Ian laughs, kind of weirdly. “Yeah, plenty of that.” He takes one out of the fridge and throws it to Mickey, who catches it easily. Ian grabs an orange soda for himself, then heads into the living room.

“So, uh, where’s the rest of your family?” Mickey says after a second. It’s like, 8:30 p.m. on a weeknight, and Ian definitely has other siblings besides Lip. Shouldn’t they be like, doing homework or some shit?

Ian shrugs. “Fiona got free vouchers to a movie because some guy puked at the last one she snuck into, so they all went to that.”

Mickey throws him a look. “Why didn’t you go too?”

“Was already doing this,” Ian says easily. “One slice or two?”

“That a fucking joke?” Mickey says. Ian laughs, but Mickey hadn’t really been kidding.

“OK, two it is,” Ian says. He puts them on a crappy paper plate that’s instantly soaked through from the grease, then hands it to Mickey.

“Thanks,” Mickey says. He sits on the couch, and takes a huge bite. The cheese is molten hot and burns the crap out of his mouth, but it’s awesome. “I can give you a couple bucks if you want.”

“No way!” Ian says instantly, picking up two slices for himself and sitting next to Mickey on the couch. “You’re the one doing me a favor. Don’t worry about it.”

“Ain’t done nothing for you yet,” Mickey mumbles around his mouthful of pizza, and Ian laughs again. Christ, is he actually this funny? Or is Ian high or something? “You gonna start this thing or what? Don’t have all night.”

“Right, sorry! Yeah.” Ian hits play on the remote, then pauses it. “Hang on, I wanna turn the lights off.”

“Whatever, just don’t get any ideas, Gallagher,” Mickey says, and raises his eyebrows.

“No worries, you’re safe with me,” Ian says with a grin.

“Clearly,” Mickey says.

“Oh yeah? What’s that mean, exactly?” Ian says, flipping off the lights. There’s still a ton of light coming in from the street outside, but still, it’s not a bad set-up. The Gallaghers have a pretty good TV, considering.

“Just that you clearly couldn’t smooth your way into anything with a stick of butter and a tube of Astroglide,” Mickey says.

“Hey, you’ve got no idea what I can do with a tube of Astroglide,” Ian shoots back without a pause, and Mickey’s suddenly weirdly grateful that it’s dark, because he’s the one whose cheeks are heating up now.

“Whatever,” Mickey says after a second. “Play the fucking movie, maybe? Sometime this century?”

Ian laughs a little and hits play, then settles in next to Mickey. It’s a decent-size couch, but for some reason, Mickey feels like their legs are weirdly close to each other. He thinks he can even feel the heat coming off of Ian’s, but maybe he’s imagining it.

Mickey considers moving over, but then that seems weird too, so he just stays put, and tries to ignore it.

Turns out the movie is better than good: the action scenes are totally badass, and the guy playing Captain America is pretty fucking impressive. Mickey gets a few good looks at the shield early on, takes note of the lines on the front, the paint job, all of that. Even gets a good angle of the back, which’ll be helpful when they’re done and have to figure out some way for Ian to carry it around.

And then . . . the Winter Soldier shows up.

His first fight scene is nothing special. But the second one, when he catches the shield on the roof and then _throws it back_ —

Mickey sits up straight, not even noticing that it makes his knee hit against Ian’s. “Pause it,” he says tersely.

“Huh? But this is—”

“Pause it!” Mickey says again, and Ian scrambles for the remote.

Mickey stares at the screen, transfixed. “How . . .” he mutters. “Huh. That’s—huh.” He turns to Ian. “This scene is dark as shit. Is there a better one?”

“What do you mean? Better for what?” Ian says, confused.

“The _arm_ ,” Mickey says, because fucking obviously.

“That’s what you’re so excited about?” Ian says. “For the love of god, Mickey. Just watch the movie. They’ll show the arm again later. Trust me.”

Mickey grumbles, but lets Ian start the movie again. And he’s not kidding. When the Winter Soldier and Captain America start duking it out in the middle of the street (which, what the fuck? Does no one have TV in this world or something? How is this guy supposed to be a master assassin if he’s throwing down with a superhero in broad daylight? Eh, whatever), it becomes clear that whoever made the movie has just as much of a hard-on for that fucking prop as Mickey does. Every other shot, it’s swinging or flexing or flinging shit around. And it looks incredible.

“Holy shit,” Mickey mutters, transfixed.

“It’s an awesome fight scene, isn’t it?” Ian says, as proud as if he’d filmed it himself.

“Hell with that,” Mickey says. “I wanna fucking _build_ that thing.”

 

The shield, Mickey’s going to be able to knock out in a few days. Etching the star design on the front will be a little delicate, but he’s not too worried about it, even with the fact that Ian’s probably going to be hanging around and getting in the way.

Making the arm, though. That’s gonna be a whole other level.

He borrows the movie from Ian before he heads home that night, and goes back and watches the fight scene a bunch of times, pausing on all the best shots to study and sketch. He stays up until about three, which is a terrible idea because he’s probably going to fail his geometry quiz tomorrow, but whatever, he’ll make it up.

By the time he finally tries to sleep, his mind is full of shining metal plates that click perfectly into place, one over the other.

It’s beautiful.

 

Mickey does most of his work at the shop at school, but when the weather’s nice enough, he has some stuff set up in the alley behind his house, too. (He used to use the basement, but after he brought home the torch set-up, he figured it was better to keep it outside. If he’s gonna blow someone up, it should only be him, not everyone else in the house.)

After they watch the movie together, Ian starts coming over and hanging around. He says he’s there to help Mickey, but they both know that Ian’s input is going to be mostly in the form of staying out of the way. He also brings chips and candy and soda, which Mickey definitely isn’t going to say no to, and he manages to find—or steal or whatever—a good-size trash-can lid for the base of the shield.

But usually he just sits on an overturned busted boiler that Mickey scrounged last year for scrap metal, and hangs out. They talk sometimes, about some fight at school, or how badly the Sox lost their last game. Ian tells Mickey how he’s thinking of joining the army, and Mickey mentions the job that Anders is going to help him with after school.

“That’s so cool,” Ian says, chugging his soda and then crushing the can. “You’re going to get to do this all the time. And get _paid_ , holy shit.”

“Yeah, I mean, if I get it,” Mickey says, uncomfortable. Talking about it with Ian makes him nervous. Like he’s going to jinx it. “Can you hand me that vise grip? The bigger one?”

Ian jumps to get it, and hands it over so Mickey can clamp the half-finished shield into place on the wooden table he has set up. “You’re going to get it,” Ian says confidently. “You’re amazing at this stuff. They’d have to be out of their minds not to hire you.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that, just shifts from foot to foot for a second, studying the metal in front of him, running his hands along it for something to do. “Yeah well,” he says at last. “People are fucking stupid, aren’t they?”

Ian shrugs, and takes a bite of his candy bar. “Basically,” he says around a mouth of caramel. Mickey tries not to stare.

Ian doesn't say anything for a few minutes, letting Mickey focus on the work in front of him. 

"So, have you been working on the arm?" he asks after a while. Mickey pauses, surprised. He hadn't mentioned it again since the night they watched the movie together. Would have figured Ian had forgotten.

Mickey wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist. It’s weirdly warm for October still, even muggy. But the leaves have changed. It’s not like he’s eager for winter or anything—the heating bills are a bitch—but this dragged-out half summer is weird. Makes him itchy in his skin.

“Kinda,” he says at last. “Figured out the top part, easy. But the sliding plates, all the stuff on the bottom half of the arm is—” He breaks off. “Sorry.”

Ian looks confused. “Sorry about what?”

Mickey blinks at him, startled. "I'm—yeah, I’m not sure how I’m going to do it yet," he finishes awkwardly. It’s weird, Ian wanting to hear about all this stuff. Mickey isn’t sure how to deal with it.

“Oh,” Ian says. He sounds . . . disappointed? Maybe. “Well, if you finish it in time, you should come to Shayna's party. It could be cool—Captain America and the Winter Soldier. They’re not having a contest or anything, but it would still be cool.”

Mickey sneers a little, can’t help it. “I'm not going to a Halloween party, Gallagher. I ain't twelve.”

Ian shrugs. “Well, I mean, it’s not like we’re bobbing for apples or anything. It’s just an excuse to get fucking wasted and eat a shitload of candy.”

“Can do that at home, thanks,” Mickey says. “And if it’s just about getting wasted, why am I busting my ass on this stupid shield for you?” He taps the edge, and listens to the ring of the metal.

Ian smiles and shrugs again, taking another big bite of candy. The caramel sticks to his bottom lip, and Mickey rubs his own reflexively. “’Cause you like it,” Ian says after a second, and he’s looking at Mickey intently. Mickey snorts, but his heart is pounding fast, like he needs to run somewhere, do something, but he doesn’t know what.

“Whatever,” he mutters. He grabs his safety goggles, snaps them on, and fires up the torch. Ian laughs and finally looks away. Mickey relaxes, but his stomach sinks a little from some kind of disappointment.

It’s just a fucking piece of metal. Who gives a shit, anyway.

 

Lying in bed that night, drifting on the edge of sleep, he finally sees it in his mind again, perfect and shining, all the pieces interlocking, sliding free, and then settling solidly into place. Perfect. _Perfect._

He flicks on his bedroom lamp and gropes under his bed for his notebook, half full of unreadable math notes and half full of actually important stuff. Not that this project is important. It’s just, yeah. It’s gonna be really cool.

Even if he doesn’t wear it at some stupid party.

 

They’re putting the finishing touches on the paint job on Ian’s shield under the ventilation hood in the shop at school. Halloween is on a Friday, two days away.

“I glad I didn’t go with the whole suit, you know?” Ian’s saying, his voice a little muffled by the respirator he has on for the fumes. “I just kind of want the shield to be the centerpiece, you know?”

Mickey doesn’t reply, just hits the edge with another little shot of red paint, and then steps back to examine it.

“What are you going to wear?” Ian asks.

“To what?” Mickey says, purposefully dense. Maybe if he says it in just the right tone, Ian will finally fucking drop it.

“With the arm, to the party,” Ian says. “I get why you don’t want to show it to me yet, but—”

Mickey turns to stare at him. “The fuck are you talking about?” he snaps. “Whoever said I was ever going to show it to anyone?”

Ian blinks, confused. “But—what’s the point of making it if no one sees it?” he says.

Mickey shakes his head. “ _Making it_. That is the point. Dunno why you have such a hard time wrapping your head around that,” he says.

“So, you _are_ making it, then!” Ian says, and Mickey can’t see his smile under the respirator, but he can sure hear it.

“Oh my god,” Mickey mutters. “You’re like a fucking pit bull. Can you just let it go, Gallagher?”

“Nope!” Ian says cheerfully. “I need a Bucky, and Bucky needs an arm. So I guess that makes you and Bucky kind of a perfect match, huh?”

“Christ. I told you. I’m not showing my face at a fucking Halloween party. It’s never going to happen.”

“Don’t need to see your face, Mick,” Ian says smugly. “Winter Soldier has an awesome mask.” And Mickey is seriously considering just spraying this paint right in the middle of Ian’s face. Watch him try to be Captain America with a big smear of red paint to match his stupid red hair.

The whole thing is just really fucking stupid.

 

“I look stupid,” Mickey mutters, staring at his half-masked face in the mirror in his bathroom. They couldn’t find the one from the movie, so he’s just wearing a mask around his eyes like in the comics. (According to Ian, anyway. Mickey hasn’t read them.) He has black jeans and a black shirt on, and old black knee pads from when Iggy wanted to play soccer in middle school and stole them off some other kid.

“Are you kidding?” Ian says. “Look at that thing. Holy shit, man.” He’s staring at Mickey in the mirror too, and his eyes are wide.

The arm looks OK.

Ian’s wearing just normal jeans and a tight blue and silver T-shirt that looks like Captain America’s get-up from the new movie: the big star, and the silver stripes across his chest and shoulders.

He looks OK, too.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. It’s stupid that he’s nervous about this. It’s just a stupid party. He snags the bottle of honey whiskey they’ve been passing back and forth—it’s sickeningly sweet, but Ian likes it better than the regular kind, so whatever—off the sink and takes another swig. It burns sweet and hot in his throat. “All right, fuck, let’s fucking get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ian says, and slings an arm over his shoulder. Mickey shrugs him off, and they head out.

The streets are full of people taking their kids trick-or-treating, and teenagers already drunk off their asses, and everything in between. There’s finally a little bite of cold in the air, just enough to prove that it’s actually fall, and Mickey can’t help but swagger a little, the arm satisfyingly solid and strong at his side. Ian’s shield is shining in the yellow glow of the streetlights, and it’s good, and Ian’s good, and goddamn it, Mickey thinks maybe it’s going to be a good night, after all.

Until they actually get to the party and head inside. It’s stuffy, and loud, and the music is shitty, and someone’s handing out weak drinks that are even nastier than that honey stuff they’ve been pregaming with all night. Mickey knocks back two and doesn’t even feel it.

Ian seems to know a ton of people, and they’re all fucking thrilled to see him, and thrilled with the shield—everyone grabs it and starts passing it around, _shit man, you could stop a fucking bullet with this, huh?_ , and Ian’s grinning like he did the whole thing himself, and there’s a person standing between him and Ian now, and then another two, but who cares, it’s not like Ian’s going to notice if he’s gone or whatever.

Mickey ducks outside to have a smoke. Too many fucking people at this lame-ass party.

He’s halfway done when Ian finds him, leaning up against the back wall of the house, and comes to stand next to him. There’s another party going on next door, dim lights and throbbing music. Mickey can see people dancing, grinding up on each other, and he shifts uncomfortably away from Ian’s warm leg against his.

Ian reaches out silently for the cigarette, and Mickey takes another drag, then hands it over, making sure their fingers don’t touch.

“Gonna head home,” Mickey says after a second, hating how quiet his voice sounds. Like he asking instead of telling.

“Don’t go yet,” Ian say. Mickey sneaks a look at him, and his eyes are pleading.

“Why not,” he mutters. “Don’t know anyone in there.”

“You know me,” Ian says.

“No I fucking don’t,” Mickey fires back. “Only thing I know about you, Gallagher, is you have shitty fucking taste in movies.”

Ian huffs out a laugh, kills the last of the cigarette and flicks it away. “You seemed to like it OK,” he says, and then he reaches out and drags his fingers up the metal arm.

Mickey stares at Ian’s hand on him. It’s fucking weird—he can’t actually feel it, so is it less weird that Ian’s doing it? Ian doesn’t move away, just keeps touching him, rubbing his thumb gently, wonderingly back and forth across the metal.

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey says softly, his mouth dry. Ian doesn’t look at him, doesn’t answer. It’s like Mickey didn’t even say anything.

Then, slowly, Ian’s eyes come up to meet his.

Mickey knows—he _knows_ , like he’s watching it happen from the outside—what Ian’s going to do. So there’s no fucking excuse, none at all, for the fact that he just sits there and lets Ian lean in and kiss him all soft on the mouth, his lips closing on Mickey’s bottom lip and resting there for a second, then pulling away with a soft little sound, like something from a movie.

Ian doesn’t move for a second. He stays with his face all pressed up against Mickey’s, their lips almost touching again just from breathing. His breath is hot on Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey’s whole body is fucking _aching_ , like nothing he’s ever felt from being near someone before.

With a little sigh, Ian leans away again, and Mickey is left standing there, shocked.

“Sorry,” Ian says quietly, and now he’s looking down at the ground. Mickey’s stomach drops.

“What was that?” Mickey says. Shit. _Shit._ What the _fuck_.

“Said I was sorry,” Ian says roughly, and swallows. He sounds like he’s choking back tears. “Couldn’t help it, I’m sorry, Mick. Please don’t go. I’ll leave you alone, just—please.” He shakes his head once, then starts to turn away.

Mickey reaches out and grabs Ian’s wrist, not hard, just enough to make him pause. “I said, what was that.”

“What do you think?” Ian says. He still won’t meet Mickey’s eyes. “I fucking—I like you. OK? I just—I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says. The skin of Ian’s wrist is hot under his fingers, and he tightens his grip a little, pulling Ian back toward him. “You think so?”

“I—what?” Ian says, breathless. Now he’s finally looking back at Mickey, gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth. Mickey licks his lips. Doesn’t mean to, just happens, and now Ian’s only looking there.

“You think it’s stupid?” Mickey says again, and Ian opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Mickey leans forward and they’re kissing again, but this time Mickey’s actually doing something, and fuck, _fuck_ , it’s good. The heat of Ian’s mouth open against his, and the quiet sounds of their lips coming together, then pulling away a little, over and over again, but never far, always leaning back in to go again . . .

Ian pulls away, and Mickey tries to follow him, his lips slick and tingling, but Ian lets out a laugh and tips his forehead against Mickey’s. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Gotta breathe.”

“Sure about that?” Mickey says.

“Nope,” Ian says, smiling a little before they fall back into it, dizzy and breathless. Ian’s hands are wrapped around Mickey’s upper arms now, and he can feel the heat of it through his shirt on the right side, but on the left, over the arm, nothing. Mickey reaches out and rests his hands on Ian’s waist, then curls his right hand so his fingers slip just under Ian’s shirt, pressing up against bare skin.

Ian sucks in a surprised breath and breaks away. “Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” Mickey says.

“I, um. We should probably—” Ian starts, and this time he’s blushing so much, Mickey can spot it even in the dark.

“Get out of here?” Mickey finishes.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “My place—Lip’s out with some girl, Fiona’s working, Carl and Debbie—”

“Don’t need the whole role call right now,” Mickey says, grabbing Ian by the wrist again and pulling him toward the sidewalk on the far side of the backyard.

“Wait!” Ian says. “My shield. It’s still inside.”

“Ian,” Mickey says patiently. “I will make you a brand-new fucking shield if you’ll leave this shitty-ass party with me right the fuck now. Deal?” He squeezes Ian’s wrist, and raises his eyebrows.

“Uh, deal,” Ian says, eyes wide. “Actually, you don’t really have to. Um, the shield thing, it was more of an excuse. Kind of a diversionary tactic?”

“Gallagher,” Mickey says in a voice he thinks is probably pretty patient. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Yeah, OK,” Ian says, staring at the ground. “So, I was . . . pretty much just looking for an excuse to hang around the shop class.”

“What? Why?” Mickey says. Now he’s just genuinely confused.

“So I could hang around with you,” Ian says, and then looks up at Mickey, nervous.

Mickey stares. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“No,” Ian says defensively. “Why would I be kidding?”

“Are you telling me that making me waste two weeks building you a fucking screen-accurate replica of a movie prop is your way of trying to get in my pants?” Mickey demands.

Ian shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Um, maybe? Sorry?”

“Well, jesus, Gallagher,” Mickey says. “Mission fucking accomplished, I guess. Now can we get the hell out of here?” He raises his eyebrows again.

Ian grins. “Oh hell yes,” he says. “Let’s go.”


End file.
